


Sun and Steel

by EucalyptusKisses



Series: Sun and Steel [1]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asgard, Awesome Darcy Lewis, BAMF Sif, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Choose Your Own Ending, Comfort/Angst, Complicated Relationships, Darcy Feels, Darcy Lewis's iPod, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Dialogue, Don't Like Don't Read, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Female Characters, Female Homosexuality, Female Protagonist, Female Relationships, Female-Centric, Femdom, Femslash, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, From Sex to Love, Grief/Mourning, Het and Slash, I Don't Even Know, Implied Consent, Implied Femslash, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by a Movie, Internalized Homophobia, Jane Foster & Darcy Lewis Friendship, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Trust, Love Confessions, Male-Female Friendship, Meant To Be, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Miðgarðr | Midgard, Multi, No Dialogue, Non-Graphic Smut, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, POV Female Character, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Relationship Issues, Relationship Negotiation, Relationship Problems, Relationship of Convenience, Relationship(s), Requited Love, Romantic Angst, SHIP DARCY WITH ALL THE THINGS, Secret Relationship, Sex Is Not The Enemy, Sex Positive, Sharing a Bed, Sif Week, The Nine Realms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Unresolved, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weird Plot Shit, Why Did I Write This?, Women In Power, going to hell for writing this but oh well, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EucalyptusKisses/pseuds/EucalyptusKisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy being with Sif was never imagined a possibility, since it was written in the stars that Sif would be Thor's, and Thor would be Sif's. But just for a little while, the two women are content to defy reality, defy fate, to be together. Their love is worth fighting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iron Butterfly

**Author's Note:**

> I recently finished reading this book called "Crank" (by Ellen Hopkins) and this fanfic was partly inspired by it. Also, this fic is told in Darcy's perspective unless otherwise stated. This was also written in about 30 minutes and unedited, so please be gentle if you leave a review/comment.

Once upon a time

they had been together,

or as together as

you can be when

most of your semi-frequent

and informal secret meetings

consisted of little dialogue

and a whole lot

of fingertips dipping into

previously unseen curves, hands

flattening across a smooth

expanse of skin, of

kisses and touching and

sweaty sex on sheets

the color of pale

porcelain tea cups.

 

They don’t really talk.

Not much use for

it. She has learned

Sif doesn’t believe in

stating the obvious and

swears by only saying

the things she feels

need to be stitched

and sewed and crafted

into words.

 

And Darcy? Well, she’s

not good with heavy

topics. Not with emotions

or matters of the

heart. So she says

very little besides setting

her boundaries and sharing

her safe-word (“cinnamon”) and

leaves everything else alone.

 

Maybe they should talk

more, get to know

each other. But is

that what either of

them want? It’s not

like they hook up

to talk; they only

really see each other

to fulfill sexual desires.

Sometimes she can coax Sif

into talking, though, and

those are the best days.

Those are when her

eyes turn liquid topaz

and she will tell

Darcy stories about her

own childhood, about her

adventures and parents and

what she likes and

doesn’t like, her interests

and her goals and her

dreams. Darcy does the

same, and it always

feels so right to

be able to see

a person beneath

the rough exterior of

Sif the warrior who

can only succeed in

bringing Darcy to climax.

 

Darcy likes the post-

sex ritual the most,

where Sif will pull

her to her (Sif’s)

chest and shift until

they are both comfortable

under the silk sheets,

until their skin is

mostly touching bedsheets. They

will be cocooned in

blankets and Darcy is

held against, is held

to, Sif’s body like

the warrior thinks she

can mold them into

one body, one soul,

one mind. Darcy wishes

it could be so.

She wouldn’t mind never

leaving Sif. She could

be happy (if not

forever, than at least

for a long time)

clinging to skin the

color of tawny walnuts,

breathing in Sif’s familiar

scent of vanilla lavender.

 

Sif doesn’t know about

that particular little desire;

the mortal woman wants

to keep it that

way. In Sif’s mind,

it will mean Darcy

longs for a committed relationship

with her (and oh

god yes, Darcy does;

she’s fallen so hard

for the female Asynjur)

and Sif will shoot

away, bolt somewhere Darcy

can’t follow her. Darcy’s

lover is a complete

commitment phobe with anybody

that’s not Thor. It’s

never been explicitly stated,

of course; Sif’s warm

breath often trickles over

Darcy’s body carrying whispers

of how good she

is, how pliant and

obedient she is under

Sif’s careful, yielding touch.

But Darcy knows she’s

just standing in, just

a constant rerun for

Sif, no matter how

much the Asynjur says

she’s enchanted by Darcy.

Darcy knows she’s right,

that Sif has actually

fallen for Thor

a long time ago.

It’s obvious in the

way Sif’s dusky mahogany

eyes sparkle, twinkle, dance

in Thor’s presence, in

the way she always

unconsciously moves in accordance

with him, forever adjusting

her position like he

is the sun and

Sif is orbiting him.

 

Intellectually, Darcy can see

his appeal. But she

feels nothing for Thor

(not even jealousy) because

he has Jane, because

now Darcy is not

sex-deprived and ripped

blondes with stubble and

a low gravel voice

are not her type.

She does not feel

like he is competition because

Thor doesn’t see Sif

in a romantic light,

because at the end

of the day she

is the one Sif

comes to, not Thor.

 

One thing Darcy loves

copiously is when Sif’s

voice transforms into something

special, the way it does

when they’re alone together.

It becomes honey slow,

words dripping off her

tongue when they are

ripe; it becomes a

rippling river with pleasant,

breathy little chuckles and

adoration meant only for

Darcy. Sif’s voice becomes

intimate, her eyes thoroughly

scanning Darcy while she

calls the mortal woman

her “iron butterfly”. It’s

not a pet name

Darcy has ever apprehended

(mainly she’s heard of

things like cuddle muffin,

honey, babe, sweetie, bear,

cupcake, dumpling, fluffer nutter . . .

they all make her

want to gag). She’s

never been a fan

of pet names, but

if Sif is the

one giving out pet

names, well, suddenly they

seem tolerable. Attractive, even.

Sif says her pet

name for Darcy is

“iron butterfly” because although

she has to remember

at times to be gentle

with Darcy, Darcy is

not fragile whatsoever; she

is strong as titanium,

as iron or steel.

She may bend, but,

she will not break.

While Darcy doesn’t understand

exactly where this line

of thinking came, she

thinks it’s endearing nonetheless.  
It’s gratifying, too, that

Sif believes in her

(in them) enough to

assume that somehow they

can make their arrangement

work. Even if it

doesn’t last for two

more months, even if

they end up in

different relationships. She likes

the level of trust

Sif does have for

her. Even if it’s

not part of the

relationship she wants (a

romantic one). To have

this in a mostly

physical relationship

feels . . . good. It almost

makes Darcy feel contented,

like she could live

off this feeling for

all the ages of

time.


	2. Frozen Flames

Sif is taken 

by Darcy, by

her inky, burnt sienna

colored hair and 

her sleek russet

eyes that look

like safety and

home. That needs

to be established,

first and foremost. 

 

It is one 

thing to spend

five thousand years

alone; it is 

quite another to

 spend the minutes, 

hours, days, years,

with Darcy. She

is a spark 

in humanity, is

the reason why

Sif even bothers

to get out

of sheets the

color of pale

milk and sneak

down to Midgard,

where they can 

find ways to 

wile away the

hours of Sif’s

absence until she

has to return

because duty on

Asgard commands her

to come back.

 

If she didn’t 

have a place

in Asgard, a 

job that carried

obligations, would she

return? Are friends

enough to keep

you bound in 

one place, one

planet? Is anything

enough to do 

that? Anything powerful

enough to override

more intimate, selfish

desires?

 

On the

other hand, is

one woman a

good enough reason

to sacrifice the

quality life she’s

worked so hard

to achieve on 

Asgard? Is running

to Darcy and 

away from her

family, friends, job, 

adventures . . . is that

something she can

live with? Running 

from a seemingly 

medieval but extended

life to one 

where technology reigns

and most existences 

are snuffed before 

they have even

begun? 

 

Can she

do that? Is

she brave enough

to try?

 

In any case,

her Darcy is

an idiosyncratic way

to spend forever. 

 

Sif doesn’t voice 

what she wants. 

Not anymore. She 

used to; she 

did whatever it 

took to become 

one of Asgard’s 

first female warriors. 

That included speaking

her mind, being 

just as abrasive

and cocky and 

tough. It meant

becoming more masculine

then feminine, establishing

that she was

not someone to 

screw with. She’d

worked hard to 

move up the ranks,

did so fairly

quickly after a

long while because

it finally became 

clear she was 

always better then 

her male counterparts.

 

But now she

is the faultless, 

ideal, quintessential soldier,

one who never

questions any commands

she is given.

Sif does what

she is told

when she is 

entrusted with orders.

She never, absolutely

never, puts her

own desires before

orders. Her country

always comes firsts.

And for the

first time in 

forever, she hates 

that. Resents it.

But she won’t

dare defy anyone

with more authority 

than her; she

is most definitely 

on probation after

helping Thor commit

treason.

 

_You work twice_

_as hard to_

_be seen as_

_half as good_.

That had been

her mother’s favorite 

saying in terms

of Sif’s first

major accomplishment. 

While it is

true, Sif supposes,

she doesn’t listen 

to her mother,

who is the

perfect epitome of

what a female

Asynjur should be 

like: a supportive

housewife, someone who

cooks and cleans

and takes care

of the children,

someone who is 

seen and not

heard. She should

be able to 

sew, hold little

house parties and 

look nice for 

her husband, be

nothing more than

a servant with

benefits. She should

be nothing more, 

in  Sif’s understanding,

than what Darcy 

calls some women

a “trophy wife”.

Sif is not 

content with staying

at home when

she could be 

out making her

life worthwhile. And 

with Darcy in 

her life, it

is.

 

Sif just doesn’t

understand why she

can’t be both 

feminine and masculine,

why she can’t

have certain male

traits and have

others that are 

female. Why does

she have to

be one or 

the other? Both

genders bleed, both

breathe and love

and see the 

world. Why does 

she have to 

choose at all?

Or even worse,

be forced into

a gender-stereotyped 

role?

Why can’t she

just _be?_

 

That is one

longing out of

many she never

dares give a 

voice to, not

unless it is 

in the quiet

of Darcy’s home,

and she is 

whispering how nice

it could be 

if they could

be like this

forevermore. 

 

She doesn’t

just mean having

sex, even though

that part is

nice. Wouldn’t it

be something if

she and Darcy

could live together?

If they could 

steal kisses between

bites of toast,

make meals together,

go shopping for 

Midgardian clothes? Wouldn’t

it be something

if they could

do mundane things

together? If she 

could teach martial 

arts to Darcy?

What if she 

was able to 

court Darcy properly,

not just use

her to orgasm? 

What if they

could have an 

actual relationship?

 

She can’t help

but frown each

time that thought

crosses her mind. 

While it is 

only partly official,

she is essentially

betrothed to Thor,

her future given

away to someone 

she is not

in love with,

someone who is

not in love

with her. But,

god, wouldn’t it

be something if

they were not

betrothed?

 

Darcy has a

weird inferiority complex

that Sif can’t

quite suss out. 

Maybe because she’s

not privy to

all the information

that would help

her understand why

Darcy thinks she 

is somehow not

good enough for

Sif. She’s not

sure why the

mortal thinks this

is true. Sometimes

she will compare

herself to Jane,

not quite saying

what is on

her mind, but

what Sif can

hear all too 

clearly, all too

loudly: Her Darcy

laments the fact

that she is 

somehow not as

smart as Jane,

not as confident

or prone to

effortless leadership. This

amuses Sif, who 

does not think

very much of 

little brown-haired

Jane, who is

vexing in that

she whines far

too much and

does not appreciate

Darcy enough. She

tries to have

a confident air

but comes off 

as clingy, pushy,

 and excessively self-

aware. She is 

not charming the

way Darcy is,

not quirky or

snarky. She does

not have the

same welcoming, familiar

air that Darcy

does. Not that

she voices this

out loud; Thor

would no doubt 

take offense, and

so would Darcy

and everybody else. 

Sif doesn’t understand

why Darcy will

sometimes push her

away, curling with

her back to 

Sif muttering something

about how she 

doesn’t quite care

about Darcy the 

way Darcy cares

about her. 

 

Sif never knows

how to respond

to that. She’s not

sure how she

feels about Darcy;

her heart curls,

squeezes, contracts, every

time she sees

mortal. Her stomach

might as well

explode from the

fireworks going off;

her fingers may

as well go 

too from the 

sizzling electric chemistry

she feels every 

single time she

touches Darcy, sexual

or not. She 

knows she’s definitely

in lust with 

Darcy; there is

no denying that.

But does she 

feel attracted to 

Darcy; to the

actual woman? Could

she be in 

love with Darcy?  
Or falling for 

her? 

 

No. She cannot

be falling for

a _woman_. She 

most certainly _is_

 _not_. Same sex

attraction is wrong

on so many 

levels. She might

as well say 

goodbye to ever

seeing Valhalla. _So_

_why do you_

_keep having sex_

_with a woman,_

_if you believe_

_it to be_

_so wrong?_ asks

a little voice 

in a shadowed

corner of her

mind. She doesn’t

have an answer.

She never does.

 

Maybe she’s just 

in love with 

the idea of 

being rash and

reckless and young,

of doing something

so completely uncharacteristic

because she is 

starting to get

bored with her

life though she

will never admit

to that. At

least not verbally.

 

Except she knows

that’s not quite

true. That is 

not why she 

is starting to

flirt with the 

idea of leaving 

Asgard.

 

Sif

doesn’t know why

she often has

the compulsion to

sprint away from

everything she knows,

catapult straight into

Darcy’s waiting arms.

But Búri and

Odin help her,

she does. She 

wants to stay 

with Darcy, in 

her bed, in 

her home, in 

her world. That

is why she 

is often smiling

at Thor, always

spending time with 

him. Always keeping

close to him.

She knows he 

plans to officially

abdicate his right

to the throne

so that he 

may stay in 

Midgard, be with

Jane. She needs

to work on 

bettering her relationship 

with him. If

Sif does find

her way back 

to Midgard, for

a more permanent 

stay, she needs

a decent, better

relationship with Thor,

her longtime ally 

and childhood friend.

 

But why is

she thinking of 

a future with 

Darcy? Of one

on Midgard? Nothing

is set in

stone; all that

is yet to 

come has not

yet played out.

For now she

merely wants to

be completely present 

in this delicious

moment with Darcy.

 

_What were you_

_thinking about?_ Darcy

whispers in her 

ear, pulling Sif

back into reality.

 

 _Nothing,_ Sif tells 

her, though she

has been contemplating

everything. _Just looking_

_at someone beautiful._

 

Nothing more needs

to be said.


	3. Shattered Mourning

Mirror, mirror, on the

wall, who’s the fairest

of them all? Definitely

not Darcy, who has

been sobbing the last

week and a half.

No one has ever

made her feel so

alive, made her feel

things the way Sif

did, and now she’s

struggling to feel anything

at all. Sif filled

her with hope and

security. Got Darcy to

take the plunge with

her. Darcy was starting

to feel like Sif

thought she was worth

it, worth all the fights

they’d have, all the

bad days because of

how good things were

between them most of

the time. But she

fractured that so well,

so effortlessly. Like somehow

she changed her mind

in an instant, decided

a split second after

Darcy whispered I love

you that what they

had, what they obviously

were going to have

(a healthy, actual relationship)

was not going to

work. That it meant

nothing to her. Like

Darcy. And Sif decided

she couldn’t take this

anymore, sleeping with a

woman. Sleeping with a

friend. She turned and

left and Darcy was

still falling, falling without

without her. Sif swore

she’d never do that.

But she did. She

gave up on them

and left. Darcy doesn’t

know how to mend

this broken heart of

hers. Sif completely destroyed

her and Darcy has

no idea how she’s

supposed to go on.

How she’s supposed to

wake up and smile

and work around all

the desolate misery stitched

into her body. How

she’s supposed to function

properly again, knowing she

gave Sif everything and it

still wasn’t enough.

 

They had fought a

week and a half

ago, their very first

fight. Darcy had blurted

 _I love you_ , and

for a moment, it

looked like Sif was

going to tell her

the same thing back.

But before anything else

could be said, Darcy

picked up the hue

of alarm in Sif’s

soot eyes, and knew

absolutely that everything had

just changed, and not

for the better. She

should have realized her

timing was bad, that

declaring her feelings right

after sex was not

a good idea. But

it just flooded up

up and out like

lava out of a

volcano; she had to

tell Sif before it

was too late. Too

late for what, she

wasn’t sure. But there

it was. She’d needed

to tell Sif. And

this was what she

got for betting everything

on them: she was broke

now; there was nothing

left for herself. Sif

had looked nonplussed, looked

doubtful and ambivalent about

Darcy’s declaration; had looked

anxious and distressed and

overwhelmed and a million

other Very Not Good

things. Darcy had blinked,

and abruptly Sif had

rolled away, off the

bed, not heeding Darcy’s

faint pleads to just

_come here, please, Sif,_

_it’s ok if you_

_don’t feel like that,_

_sorry for blurting it_

_out, just come here._

Sif had scrambled out

of the bed, the

pastel, garage mix colored

bed sheet dragged behind

her, the only garment

(if you could call

it that) used to

hide her tawny, mocha-

colored body, underlit arsenic

colored hair in ruffled

tangles. Sif’s equally Stygian

walnut eyes flashed a

warning to just stay

away, even though Darcy

could not for the

life of herself understand

the abrupt, exuberant display

of complete consternation, tinged

with the steel, metallic

taste of terror, laced

with shots of . . . ire?

Distress? She couldn’t quite

place the other feeling

written on Sif’s face,

but it was there

nonetheless. And then Sif

was bolting away from

Darcy, away from something

she hadn’t meant to

say just then. And

Sif ran from something

good. And Darcy has

no idea why.

 

She was such a

fool to believe that

Sif could feel the

same way. That things

would ever be different

between them. Obviously Sif

didn’t feel the same way.

So why did Darcy

think she did? Hell,

maybe Darcy was just

looking at the world

through lenses colored the

shade of love, with

hues of infatuated optimism

about her future. She

thought that finally she

was important to someone.

And, oh, how wrong

she was. Darcy has

no idea how to

feel about Sif. She

doesn’t hate Sif for

leaving, but she hates

the woman for pretending

all this time she

wouldn’t. Sif knew Darcy

loved her; it was

so fucking obvious,

but she broke Darcy’s

heart anyway. And what

hurts is that things

will never be the

same again. Never. Waking

up is hell; Darcy

now aims to ache

about Sif every other

breath, instead of focusing

her work. She doesn’t

believe in love anymore;

how can she, with

the way Sif tore

her heart out, threw

the love Darcy gave

her into a dumpster

like it was something

to hide, be ashamed of?

Because Sif had always

insisted they never, absolutely

never, tell anyone about

their little arrangement. And

Darcy wishes she had

let go of Sif

sooner. No one should

be ashamed to be

seen with her. Isn’t

it going to be

absolute hell, when Thor

marries Jane (and he

will, no doubt about

that)? She and Sif

will be at the

wedding, and they’ll have

to pretend that they

had no history together,

pretend like the days

that made up their

relationship never existed. Darcy

will have to pretend

that Sif never made

her feel as though

she actually meant something

to someone, even though

Sif did. Darcy has

no idea how she’s

supposed to go on;

she doesn’t know what

to tell Jane or

Erik. She doesn’t know

how to erase the

thoughts of Sif, how

she is supposed to

to stop loving Sif

with all the broken

pieces of her heart.

How are you supposed

to move on? she

wonders. She marvels that

they never got their

chance to see what

they could have been,

because Sif ran away,

because Sif was so

scared. She hates that

Sif has no doubt

moved on, that Darcy

is still not over

her, that Sif has

no idea. She can’t

stand the idea that

she’ll never be

to look at Sif,

and not remember what

a big part she

she was of Darcy’s

life. She can’t breathe

without Sif, but she

has to, and she

doesn’t know how.

Doesn’t know how to

stop needing Sif, how

to heal the scars

no one can see.

The worst part, of

course, is that she’s

smiling just to keep

the tears from falling.


	4. Pristine Daybreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I can't believe this is the final chapter. I had so much fun writing this; I hope everybody who's read this enjoyed it just as much. 
> 
> Hopefully I'll be able to add a second part to this series someday.
> 
> Please feel free to imagine your own ending for this; that's why I left "Pristine Daybreak" with an ambiguous conclusion (I like to think that Darcy and Sif eventually get into a proper relationship, but that's just me).

It has been

 

a year and

 

a half since

 

she fled from

 

Darcy, bolted from 

 

security and serenity

 

and the feeling

 

of belonging somewhere.

 

 From the feeling

 

of not having

 

to hide, to 

 

be ashamed of

 

the fact that

 

she is attracted 

 

to females, and

 

only females. Sif

 

took Thor’s advice

 

(of course he

 

has no idea

 

of anything that

 

transpired between her

 

and Darcy, but 

 

he knew she

 

was grieving over

 

something lost). She

 

stole away from 

 

Asgard, with the

 

Allfather’s permission, and

 

simply rested her 

 

weary spirit away

 

from Asgard, away

 

from everything she’d

 

ever known. Sif

 

fought enemies, learned

 

new trades, became

 

both an apprentice

 

and a mentor. 

 

Her learning did 

 

not cease, and

 

life in both

 

Asgard and Midgard

 

went on like

 

clockwork. When she 

 

returned, she was 

 

asked what she 

 

had learned. And

 

all Sif could

 

say was, “My

 

Lord, Allfather, I 

 

have seen much,

 

more than I 

 

ever realized was

 

possible to exist. 

 

I had many

 

tutors and mentors

 

to guide both

 

myself and my

 

journey.” He seemed

 

pleased. Odin then 

 

had another inquiry

 

for her: _Are_

 

_you finished with_

 

_your grieving, Lady_

 

_Sif? Have you_

 

_mended the things_

 

_that needed fixing?_

 

She paused, shocked.

 

Did he know? 

 

 _Could_ he know?

 

Was it possible

 

he was referring

 

to her attraction

 

of females the 

 

thing that was

 

broken? She took a 

 

breath before answering. 

 

“I have finished 

 

mourning, my Lord. 

 

I am ready

 

to go forth

 

with my life.” 

 

She paused, gauging

 

his reaction before

 

continuing. “But I 

 

cannot do so 

 

here. Not anymore.”

 

There was a 

 

loud ripple of 

 

shock throughout the

 

court; Sif could

 

not just then

 

understand why they 

 

seemed so surprised,

 

so anxious. “There

 

is someone on 

 

Midgard, my Lord,

 

whom I have 

 

done wrong by. 

 

I am obligated

 

by every code,

 

especially my own,

 

to right the

 

things between her

 

and I.” Everyone

 

looked surprised, hesitant

 

around her, like 

 

they were not

 

sure she was 

 

saying what they 

 

thought she was.

 

Everybody except for

 

Odin. _She loved_

 

_you, this mortal,_

 

he said after 

 

a tense beat

 

of silence. Sif’s

 

face was white,

 

but resolute. “And 

 

I her, though 

 

I was not 

 

willing to admit

 

it at the

 

time. I deemed 

 

same sex relationships

 

unlawful, but they 

 

are not. We

 

all breathe, we

 

all bleed, we 

 

love. And it

 

does not matter

 

if my love 

 

is not the 

 

same as yours. 

 

We are all, 

 

at our cores, 

 

one and the 

 

same.” Odin simply

 

nodded, listening to

 

her. _For one_

 

_so young, you_

 

_have realized what_

 

_many will not_

 

_understand. Go to_

 

_her; it is_

 

_clear she still_

 

_means more than_

 

_life itself to_

 

 _you._ Sif could

 

barely whisper a

 

thank you, give

 

a smile, before

 

she was turning

 

and sprinting to

 

gather her things,

 

to run to 

 

Darcy. 

 

 

 

Things have changed

 

on Midgard since

 

she was last

 

here. She knows

 

from Erik that

 

Darcy has not 

 

seen anyone in 

 

Sif’s absence; has

 

not even seemed

 

to look at 

 

a person the

 

way she did

 

with Sif. And

 

all too soon,

 

Sif is at 

 

her familiar mahogany

 

door, knocking on

 

it. And there

 

is Darcy, opening

 

it, Darcy frozen

 

in shock as 

 

she leans against 

 

the frame. _Oh_

 

_my god. Sif._

 

_Is this for_

 

_real? You’re actually_

 

_here?_

 

 

Sif nods. Before

 

she knows it, 

 

Darcy has slapped 

 

her. _Do you_

 

_have any idea_

 

_of the hell_

 

_I went through?!_

 

_You broke my_

 

_heart, Sif. You_

 

_wouldn’t talk to_

 

_me. You wouldn’t_

 

_come so we_

 

_could communicate, no_

 

_matter how many_

 

_times Thor begged_

 

_you. You’re why,_

 

_for the longest_

 

_time, I didn’t_

 

_believe in love_

 

_anymore._

 

Darcy fixes an

 

icy, pissed look

 

on Sif.

 

 

Sif hangs her

 

head, in both

 

defeat and in

 

shame. “You have

 

every right to 

 

be angry with 

 

me, Darcy. I

 

did not handle 

 

myself like an 

 

adult; I behaved

 

like an irrational

 

child. I have had

 

much time - a 

 

year and a

 

half - to myself.

 

To think of 

 

what I wished

 

to say to 

 

you in regards

 

to your declaration,

 

to how I 

 

acted afterwards. The

 

words I have 

 

chosen were chosen 

 

with care.” Sif 

 

pauses; and it 

 

looks like Darcy 

 

is willing to 

 

hear her out. 

 

“Thank you for

 

giving me someone

 

to hold, someone 

 

to kiss, someone 

 

to love. Thank

 

you for letting

 

me experience love

 

even though it’s

 

over now. I 

 

am overjoyed that

 

I was able

 

to experience something

 

so true and

 

beautiful, and that

 

it was with 

 

you.”

 

 

Darcy’s eyes are 

 

moist with tears, 

 

and she whispers, 

 

_You’re welcome, Sif._

 

_That was extremely_

 

_sweet of you._

 

Sif blushes, says

 

thank you again. 

 

“I was wondering . . . 

 

I mean, if

 

it was even

 

possible . . .”

 

 

_You want to_

 

_know if I_

 

_still want you,_

 

_still love you,_

 

_still want to_

 

_be in a_

 

_relationship with you._

 

Sif just nods,

 

trepidation making every

 

molecule in her

 

body ache. _In_

 

_a way, I_

 

_do, Sif. But_

 

_I need to_

 

_heal before I_

 

_can love anyone._

 

_And you need_

 

_to find a_

 

_way to be_

 

_comfortable with your_

 

_sexuality, whatever it_

 

_is. I don’t_

 

_want to have_

 

_to hide someone_

 

_and something I’m_

 

_proud of._

 

 

“I love you

 

too,” Sif whispers,

 

the only thing

 

she is able 

 

to say. Darcy 

 

gives her a 

 

weary smile. “If

 

we love each

 

other, we can

 

make things work,

 

Darcy. We can

 

do this.” She

 

gives her a 

 

pleading look. 

 

_Sometimes that’s just_

 

_not enough, Sif._

 

_We have the_

 

_right love at_

 

_the wrong time._

 

 

Sif is choking

 

on air, choking

 

on nothing. And

 

somehow she is

 

able to whisper,

 

“Someday?”

 

 

Darcy just nods,

 

like she is

 

just placating Sif,

 

places a comforting

 

hand on Sif’s

 

face, cradling it.

 

 _Maybe someday,_ she 

 

whispers, a ghost

 

of a smile

 

on her shadowy

 

amaranth colored lips.

 

_Or maybe never,_

 

Darcy adds subduedly. 

 


End file.
